The Peregrine Survivor
by missCanary
Summary: Daryl knew she could hold her own, nevermind the fact that he'd picked her up in a creek as she slowly bled to death. Still, he couldn't resist the urge to follow her, to see about this revenge she sought. He didn't know that both of their lives would soon hang in the balance, at the mercy of a psycho. *Rated M for language, adult themes, and smut*
1. Chapter 1

**A few notes from missCanary**

_Thanks for checking out my story! I have had this in my mind for a while. It's been distracting me as I try to write Timshel (go check it out!) so I figure I'll juggle the two for a while._

_My OC is a character that I'm trying to develop for an original story I'm writing, completely unrelated to TWD. I want to try to get her personality down, so give me some feedback!_

_This starts in episode one, season 3. _

_Disclaimer: I own none of the TWD characters, only my OC._

**Mila Devroe**

_Voices_. She thought she heard voices.

She couldn't truly tell; they were low and mumbled, the only type of voice anyone heard these days. And just as all voices were quiet, they were also dangerous.

A strand of dark hair fell in front of her eyes; she pushed it away, resting an elbow on her knee. Squatting was the only position that provided the slightest amount of comfort. Her stomach twisted tightly on itself, shooting pain straight to her back.

She'd been resting on the train tracks, studying the expansive, infested prison below. Really, she was just daydreaming. It would be heavenly to live safe behind those walls, especially after the hell she'd escaped from, but putting down all those walkers by herself just wasn't an option. She'd considered settling for the small space between the fences; at least the walkers couldn't get to her in there. However, she'd be living among them. They would surely smell her. Sleeping while surrounded by putrid, rotting corpses wasn't much better than running from them.

Besides, she really wasn't feeling well. This brought her attention back to the voices, which seemed to be approaching. It'd been weeks since she heard a human speak other than herself; so long that she wondered if she was hallucinating. Her stomach seized again, making her inhale sharply.

With a small groan, she stood. She had to move. There was no denying it now; the voices were real, and she didn't care to be seen. She slid down the ditch quickly, bringing with her a trail of tumbling gravel. The right person would notice that instantly. She hoped that these were normal, weary survivors who would pass by without a thought.

She noticed as she settled behind the thick brush that it was becoming uncomfortably hot. Waves of heat began rippling up into her cheeks, but she ignored them. She had to be quiet, and she wanted to see these people.

_There._

It was two men. They appeared from the forest, climbing onto the train tracks. She stilled her small form as best she could, trying to blend in to the background. Men were scary and animalistic in this world. No one could be trusted immediately. Another wave of heat hit her cheeks, bringing with it a stiff shot of nausea. _Fuck, Mila. Keep it together_. She gritted her teeth.

They were both scruffy, as all living people were these days, but they had a certain kind of civility in their eyes that she hadn't seen in months. One had dark, curling hair and a fitted leather jacket. The other was more blonde, with sleepy eyes and a crossbow. His leather vest had two white wings sewn into the back. Seeing the crossbow made her stomach drop. If he knew how to use it, he probably knew how to track. The skid marks in the gravel led straight to her.

Suddenly they stopped, having noticed the prison. _No, keep moving_! More nausea. She could feel the saliva collecting in her mouth, but she was too afraid to spit it out. The men continued talking quietly, but with more animation. They were interested in the prison, as she had been.

"_It's perfect_" she heard the dark-haired man say. A knee-jerk feeling of possession came over her. She'd seen the damn thing first! But what could she do about it? She was cowering in the bushes from two men, angry over a prison she could never take anyway. Her light brown eyes watered as she squeezed them shut, trying to will away the growing pain and queasiness in her stomach.

In an attempt to distract herself, she tried to memorize the details of her two mystery men, in case she ran into them later. They appeared to have been travelling, but neither was exceptionally gaunt. Sure, they were skinny, but it was clear that someone knew how to hunt in their group. She just assumed they had a group. Most people did these days.

The strangers turned, about to leave. _Finally_. The blonde one revealed a filleted squirrel hanging on a string over his shoulder. Its skin was missing, muscles still glistening in the afternoon sun. He'd just caught it. Then, she zeroed in on its body cavity, at the remnants of whatever guts the animal had.

The sight of the animal wasn't new to her by any means. She'd been hunting to survive for months now. However, her body wasn't listening to her anymore. _Fuck_. She felt it rising, the fullness in her throat. They were almost off the tracks, when…

She couldn't help it. She vomited, _loudly_.

**Daryl Dixon**

"The fuck was that?" Daryl skipped back onto the train tracks, positioning his crossbow as he peered around carefully.

Rick Grimes joined him. "Sounded human," he muttered.

The surrounding forest was hushed and calm, muted by the new green leaves of spring. Whoever made the sound was keeping a low profile. "Sounded like someone puking their damn guts up."

As if on cue, the harsh retching rang out again, drawing both men toward the ditch on the other side. Daryl snapped his fingers at Rick, pointing to a disturbance in the gravel. The trail led to an area of thick brush below; it rustled. Daryl could hear shallow, raspy breathing as the hidden person caught their breath. Whoever it was didn't know much about keeping hidden.

"May as well come out," Rick said, sounding both bored and obligated to address the noise. They both positioned their weapons as a young woman stumbled into view, tripping over her own shoe and collapsing into a clumsy heap on the dirt. Daryl glanced at Rick, unsure of how to react. They heard her swear quietly and then put her in their sights as she staggered to her feet.

She was impossibly thin, a fact that hardly surprised Daryl anymore. Everybody was thin, especially after the dry, cold winter they'd all just survived. Her face probably had a pretty olive skin tone like her arms and chest, but it was currently a sickly gray color. She locked eyes with him warily, swallowing thickly.

"Mind movin' that hand?" He gestured with his crossbow, pointing out her small hand which had drifted discreetly to a gun on her hip. She rolled her eyes in annoyance, raising skinny arms in surrender.

"I'm not gonna try anything." The girl's voice was hoarse, probably from the stomach acid she'd just puked up. "…Unless you do." She looked up at them with a challenging gaze that didn't match her current physical state. Daryl smirked. _Yeah right._

Rick spoke up. "No offense, but I don't think you'd win."

To prove his point, the girl grimaced again, leaning over with her hands on her knees. "Ah, fucking Christ." Daryl looked around, starting to wonder if this was a ploy.

"Ya got people with you, girl?" The girl chuckled, still bent over.

"Nope, no people. If it's alright with y'all, I'd like to get going." She stood. Her lips were pressed into a hard line as she attempted to look normal.

That surprised Daryl. He'd fully expected this chick to beg for some help, to try to join their group. He had hoped that she wouldn't, just because Rick had become such a hardass. He didn't much care for new company, but this girl looked downright pitiful, no matter what front she put on. Rick would turn her away anyway, Daryl was almost certain.

He studied her as she waited for permission to leave. Her eyes were almost golden, and damn intimidating. He judged her to be in her late twenties, but age didn't really reflect well these days. She could have been younger. Her dark brown hair lay tangled in a mess on her head, pulled up hastily into a ponytail. For how thin she was, Daryl could tell the girl was strong. If she'd been in a better state, she could probably put up a good fight.

Rick cleared his throat, shifting his feet. "How do I know you aren't faking this; that you aren't going to attack us later on?" It was a necessary question, no matter how unlikely the chances. This chick wasn't faking it.

Her eyes fluttered, presumably in a wave of pain. "Guess you're gonna have to trust me."

"Think we'll watch ya leave, if's all the same," Daryl muttered. The girl shrugged indifferently, briefly locking her eyes with him once again. Somewhere deep down, Daryl probably thought she was pretty. Frivolous thoughts like that were so thickly buried by the priority of survival, however, that he didn't even recognize it.

Rick holstered his gun, considering her intently as she turned and made her way down the ditch. Daryl could tell that he was wrestling with himself over how sick she seemed. "C'mon, let's go feed the others." Daryl turned toward the forest.

He was giving Rick an out, reminding him of all the mouths they felt responsible to feed. They couldn't take on another one, even if Rick wanted to. And besides, he knew that Rick didn't really want to, he just felt obligated.

As for Daryl, he turned and gave the mystery girl one last look before heading into the dark woods.

_Well, there ya have it._

_Daryl's POV is hard to write! He's so complicated and stoic, I don't really know what he'd be thinking. Suggestions are always nice. _

_Let me know what you think!_

_xoxo_


	2. Chapter 2

**A few notes from missCanary**

_Disclaimer: I own none of the TWD characters, only Mila._

_Thanks for those of you that read! And I appreciate the review, it keeps me writing._

_xoxo_

* * *

**Mila DeVroe**

Mila doubled over, crying out in pain. _What the fuck is happening?_ She was doubly aware of her surroundings, of the forest that most likely hid hundreds of hungry walkers. She knew she couldn't be incapacitated like this out in the open. The girl's stomach grinded against itself like ill-fitting gears, twisting and stabbing her lower belly relentlessly.

She tried to remember ever feeling like this. The pain became so blinding at times that Mila's vision blurred. It was intermittent, ebbing and flowing, but always growing worse. Still, she staggered on, clutching her abdomen like a wounded soldier.

It was a wet afternoon, coated in the morning's rain and constant humidity. Everything smelled moist and earthy, like spring. Mila followed the creek as she always did, attempting to locate a good spot to hide. In the meantime, she thought of the two men back at the train tracks.

Mila so badly wanted to know who they were. She'd underestimated her longing for other people. It had only been two months since she escaped her captors, but before then she had endured five months of solitude and torture. The memory overwhelmed her with anger and anxiety. Mila constantly wondered if the captors were looking for her.

But _those_ men, they'd seemed relatively normal. Their voices were so guttural and smooth, lacking the hatred of the men who took her. How had they survived this long? The dark-haired one gave off a dominant, hardened vibe, as though he'd been through hell. That was almost normal, given the circumstances of the world. The blonde one, though; he seemed at ease, almost comfortable in his surroundings, like no amount of horror or bad fortune would surprise him. Mila could only guess that he'd already endured hell, long before the world ended.

A raspy yowl caught the small girl's attention, drifting from the creek bed. Mila pursed her lips, pausing. It was her rule that she always looked. If no immediate danger loomed, Mila sought out the commotion and looked. It was an odd quirk, and she'd mastered the art of observing invisibly. Something deep inside of her hoped that, if she checked, someone would always check too. One day she might be underneath one of those walkers.

She crept forward, aware of the softened earth. The creek rushed lazily, about 15 feet below the line of the forest. Erosion ate away at the forest floor, carving out a wide, winding snake. Mila stretched out tentatively. A grotesque corpse sat dead in the center of the creek, chewing on the remains of a beaver. It was almost comical to see. He, once a man, sat cross legged, ripping into the dead animal like a turkey leg. Mila grimaced at the thought of all this creek water touching the walker, which oozed and festered in the warming spring sun.

The pain suddenly returned in her gut, stronger than anything before. It took every ounce of concentration to stay silent as she folded over herself, gripping a thin tree trunk with trembling hands. Tears rolled down Mila's cheeks as she attempted to breathe shallowly, sobbing quietly in defeat. She couldn't take it anymore. She waited and waited for the pain to pass, as it always did, but relief didn't come this time. The sharp, stabbing sensation deep in Mila's gut pounded on, taking her breath away and blacking out her vision. She swayed in response.

The ground gave out beneath her shoes. Mila had been standing too close to the edge of the bank. She hit the sloping earth heavily, knocking the wind out of her as she slid into the frigid water. It bubbled around her waist as she sat up, breathing heavily in continued pain.

The walker's head snapped up, distracted by its meal. "God damn it," Mila whimpered. She couldn't even see straight. How was she supposed to put down this walker?

To her horror, the swirling current around Mila bloomed red. With shaking hands, she yanked her knife off her belt, noticing how numb her feet felt. It could have been the water. But where was the blood coming from? All the while, her stomach seized and clenched, pounding Mila with unbearable pain and nausea.

The walker stumbled to its feet, sloshing toward her with the carcass dangling from its gray fingers. Blood continued to dye the water red as she prepared herself, growing dizzier by the second. If she could just get this walker down, she could rest. Exhaustion tugged at her eyelids; maybe from lack of sleep, but most likely from the pain, and whatever was going on in Mila's body. The corpse hissed at her dumbly. Mila could do this. She fought the heaviness in her eyes as it closed in on her.

The walker crumpled on top of her, yelling and groaning with vocal chords that no longer worked. Mila pushed against its neck with all her strength, keeping its lethal bite away from her skin. She felt them sliding as the silt gave way underneath her. Before she knew it, Mila was underwater, with a walker on top of her.

It was a strange blessing. The sting of the freezing water on her face jolted Mila awake. She thrashed wildly under the weight of the walker, blinking furiously in the red-tinged water. Her fingers dug into the corpse's neck, puncturing the rotted skin easily. With all her might, Mila threw her hand forward, burying her knife into the walker's skull.

It crumpled on top of her, trapping Mila in the water. She struggled for almost a minute to get out from under it in her weakened state, almost unconscious by the time she reached air. The spring breeze hit her face and Mila gulped in the oxygen, sputtering and clawing at the gravel with her small hands.

The bank rose slightly in the middle of the creek, offering a shallow spot and a small boulder for Mila to rest against. She dragged her worthless body to safety, turning to sit and catch her breath. The walker lay face-down in the shallow current, unmoving.

Mila looked down. Her shirt was stained blood red. She suddenly realized that her consciousness was on a time limit. Soon, she would pass out from blood loss. Mila had to see where it was coming from and try to stop it. She unbuttoned her pants with stiff fingers, pushing them over her hips with difficulty, as they were drenched.

Her thighs looked okay. Mila saw no cuts. In a cold reminder, her stomach stabbed her again, eliciting a loud cry of pain from the young woman. She clutched her stomach tightly, panting against the pain, and looked down again. She wasn't bleeding from a cut or a scrape; Mila could see that now.

The fog of the blood loss caught her again. Maybe it was the sight of it, swirling up from between her legs into the water in an unrelenting tendril. Mila's head bobbed, startling her awake. _Come on Mila, stay awake._ It was a futile plea. Her lids fought against her. In one last moment of clarity, Mila holstered her knife, making sure it was secure. Then, all was black.

* * *

**Daryl**

This fuckin' squirrel was worthless. Daryl threw the tiny carcass to the ground; couldn't even call it a damn squirrel. He hated spring. Everything was small and young, couldn't put meat on anybody's bones.

He crept on, looking halfheartedly for anything to shoot. Everybody was still starving; that fact never changed. He was so fuckin' tired of thinking about food. It wasn't the task of hunting it down. That was as close to therapy as the Dixon got. He just wasn't used to putting food on the table for 8 other people.

Rick was back at the house, discussing that prison with the others. Daryl was for it; if it kept people contained and safe, it was more off his back. Maybe he'd get some damn time to himself again; not that he disliked his group. Daryl loved them in his own reserved, Dixon way. He just needed some freedom every once in a damn while.

Something caught his eye; tracks. Daryl had a love-hate relationship with tracking anymore. It almost always led to a walker if it was human tracks. Something about these tracks made him pause, though. They were fresh, he could tell that much; smallish feet, not too much weight on them. They made a strange pattern. He sensed that the person had been stumbling, or dragging. _Fuckin' walker then_. Like he said, it almost always led to a walker.

Then, Daryl noticed a disturbance on the edge of the creek bank. The dirt was fresh and turned up, as if it had been kicked. He chewed on the inside of his lip for a moment, and then approached the overhang. The worst that could happen would be that it was a walker. Those dumbasses couldn't climb the creek bank.

A cry rang out from the bottom of the creek. _Ah, shit_. He sped to a jog and stopped when he saw her. It was that girl from the train tracks. She was slumped against a small boulder in the middle of the creek, breathing shallowly as she undid her pants. He noticed the blood pooling around her. One glance down answered his question. A walker lay dead on the edge of the creek, swaying limply with the current.

_She got fuckin' bit_. He watched her silently as he debated what to do. Well, what the hell was there to debate? She got bit; there was nothing he could do for her besides put her out of her misery. Daryl felt a twang of sadness that he rarely acknowledged anymore. He was a hard ass, but it didn't mean he lacked a soul. She was young; it was a shame.

She yanked her pants down, checking her legs. Daryl's eyebrows furrowed. He couldn't see any bites. She looked well enough from the waist up. Then, he watched as she looked down toward her groin, gripping her stomach and crying out again. He could see her hand shaking from the pain all the way up here. Daryl was suddenly uncomfortable. He could see where the blood was drifting up from. Her mannerisms alone told the Dixon that it wasn't a normal thing, but he didn't know what in the hell he was supposed to do about it.

As if on cue, Glenn approached behind him. "There you are. We're moving toward the prison; everybody's waiting for you to get back." Daryl turned and regarded his friend. Glenn looked absolutely gaunt. His Korean skin looked almost yellow from the malnutrition and the lack of sleep, but he had a spirit in his eyes that hadn't been there since they settled in at the farm.

Daryl cleared his throat. "Check this out." He nodded toward the creek. Glenn walked up and looked down, stilling in surprise.

"Shit," he breathed. "She get bit?"

"Nah, don't think so. We met her up at the train tracks earlier; she was actin' all funny. Fuckin' puked everywhere, that's how we found her."

Glenn looked confused. "Oh. Well…where's all that blood coming from?" Daryl looked back down at the girl, who had passed out against the rock. He sucked on his teeth, not responding. Glenn seemed to understand. "Damn."

It kind of made Daryl laugh inwardly. Here they were, two seasoned walker slayers, surviving in this fucked up world, and they couldn't stomach the thought of a girl bleeding from her…well, whatever the fuck they called that equipment. A uterus?

It was a fleeting feeling of humor, though, as they realized that they either had to help her, or leave her. "Do we bring her to Herschel?" Glenn muttered. Daryl bit his thumb nail as he thought. He knew it wouldn't sit well with Rick. The man had basically given the rest of the world two big "fuck yous" with his middle fingers. He cared about his group, and that was it. Daryl understood, it was a survival thing, but something about the chick kept him standing there, staring at her.

Glenn spoke up again. "I mean, we could just leave her in the house. At least she'd be sort of safe." Daryl hummed in acknowledgement. Another walker hissed and sputtered somewhere down the creek. He didn't know whether it was moving or if it was stuck, but it put a sense of urgency in the decision they had to make.

"Fuck it. C'mon." He slid down the bank, hopping over the dead walker and into the water. Glenn followed. Daryl sloshed toward the girl, putting two rough fingers on her neck. "Well, she's alive." The blood circling lazily in the shallow water was fresh. "But she might die of blood loss."

The walker groaned out again. Daryl couldn't tell if it sounded louder or the same distance away. Glenn leaned on his knees, looking at the girl warily. "Should we try to wake her up?"

"Don't know that she will." He hooked his hands under her armpits, straining to pick her up. She probably weighed 100 pounds soaking wet, but 100 pounds of dead weight was still pretty damn heavy. "Cover her up, will ya." Glenn obliged and tugged her pants back up, and then Daryl hoisted the girl into his arms, cradling her like a baby. It was going to be a bitch getting out of the creek.

The walker appeared, making slow progress. Glenn trotted over to it and impaled the corpse with his knife, throwing it down into the water.

* * *

_I hope I did better with Daryl. I'm getting to know him in my own mind, so hopefully he sounds pretty true to character._

_Let me know what you think!_

_xoxoxo_


	3. Chapter 3

**A few notes from missCanary**

_Disclaimer: I do not own any Walking Dead characters; only Mila._

'_ellooo friends. Thank you so much to those who reviewed! _

_xoxoxo_

* * *

**Daryl Dixon**

Herschel emerged from the back room with his daughters, Maggie and Beth. Everybody looked up, anxious to get moving toward the prison. "She's had a miscarriage with some serious complications," he said, placing their small bag of medical supplies on the couch. "She lost a lot of blood, but there's nothing I can do about that. I gave her a bag of fluid. She's hooked up to it now; hasn't regained consciousness. If you two hadn't brought her to me, she would be dead now."

Daryl sat on the armrest of the couch. He watched Rick purse his lips, leaning forward in his seat. "You gave her our only bag of fluid?" His voice was low and controlled, but Daryl knew that behind it the man was fuming. It didn't take much to set Rick off these days, thanks to the largely pregnant woman across the room. Lori eyed her husband warily.

"What were we supposed to do, leave her?" Glenn muttered quietly.

"Yes," Rick hissed. In another era, Rick might have cared about a young woman losing her baby. The room shifted uncomfortably. They still didn't know how to handle this new Rick.

Herschel stood his ground calmly, casting his kind eyes onto the worn leader of the group. "It can all be sterilized and reused. IV fluid is as simple as mixing water and salt. We'll leave her here and check on her tomorrow. I don't expect she'll move much; her blood pressure was very low."

"What if she wakes up and takes the bag?" Lori asked, hands resting on her belly. She was going to need it when that baby popped, Daryl realized. Fuckin' babies seemed like a death sentence these days.

Glenn looked at Daryl. Daryl sighed. Well hell, he'd brought her here. He stood, throwing his crossbow over his shoulder. "Le's go. We'll clear the prison field 'n then I'll come back an' watch the girl." His voice was gruff and annoyed, matching how he felt. He didn't regret picking her ass out of the creek, but he didn't much care to set Rick off any more often than the group already did. If he had to babysit this chick over a plastic bag, he would.

Rick didn't like that answer either. "You're one of our best shots; we need you with the group."

Daryl shifted his weight. "I'll make sure she doesn't steal our shit. If the field isn't secure I'll stay, but, the chick's on me. I'm the one who brought her." He didn't wait for an answer and left the group, walking toward his bike. A lone walker dragged itself toward the house; Daryl impaled it with his arrow without a second thought. _She may not survive anyway_, he mused bitterly, yanking the arrow out of the softened skull.

Rick followed him out, stone-faced. "I don't like this," he drawled. Daryl squinted at Rick through the afternoon sun.

"I know. Ya got good shots, though; Glenn, Maggie, T-Dog. Even Carol's gettin' good." Rick just looked out across the road, battling some inner struggle. Daryl almost felt sorry for the man. Rick was wasting away mentally, ever since he killed Shane. "Aye." He jerked his head. "'S on me."

The cop considered that and finally nodded curtly. "It's on you." The Dixon stomped his bike into drive, idling while the others packed into the cars.

* * *

Taking the prison field was easier than the group expected. The key to success was that enclosed buffer zone between the forest and the field. Walkers groaned and moaned right to them stupidly, bumping into the chain-link fence like they didn't even see it. Everyone was exhausted, but they used spearing the corpses as an outlet, putting each one down with force.

Regardless, securing the expansive field took the remainder of the afternoon. By the time they were done, the sun had dipped below the tree line, bathing everything in cool blue light.

Daryl rotated his neck stiffly. He couldn't remember the last time he put down that many walkers at once. The lingering smell of death singed his nose, making the man glad he had a reason to escape for a while. He sat on the overturned van, one that they dragged in front of a broken gate, and cleaned his arrows.

Herschel wandered up, hands in his pockets.

"'Sup," Daryl muttered, throwing an arrow into the "clean" pile and grabbing another. Herschel looked at him pensively, in that intelligent way the old man always did. Daryl didn't look up, but he could feel two eyes on him.

"You did the right thing, you know; bringing her out of the woods." Daryl didn't respond, so Herschel continued. "Rick doesn't think I should go with you, and to be honest I think I'm too exhausted anyway. I wanted to check on her, make sure everything was better than just getting the bag back." Daryl looked at him now, noticing Herschel's fingers manipulating something in his pocket. "I didn't say anything before, but I wouldn't feel right leaving her the way she is. She's got a bad infection; it probably caused the miscarriage."

He pulled out a bottle of pills from his pocket, tossing them to Daryl. He caught it easily, looking at the label. _The hell is Levaquin_, Daryl thought. "So what, she get cut or somethin'?" Herschel was stupid if he thought he could trust Daryl to do anything medical.

"Whipped, probably," Herschel replied simply. "At least that's what the scars on her back look like. A couple haven't healed; I'm assuming that's where the infection started." He seemed to sense Daryl's apprehension. "I just want you to give those to her, provided she's awake and alive."

Daryl stuffed the bottle into his pocket. "Sure." Seemed easy enough. He jumped down from the van, slinging his crossbow across his back. "I'm goin'," he muttered. Herschel nodded, helping to drag open and then close the gate.

"Hey." Daryl turned at the old man's voice. "I appreciate you doing this. The world is an ugly place now; it just wouldn't feel right not offering help to someone now and again." Daryl just jerked his head in a nod, starting through the woods. He didn't mind helping out, long as it didn't affect him staying alive.

He considered what the old man had said. _Whipped, huh_. The hardened redneck knew a thing or two about being whipped.

* * *

She was still unconscious when he got to her. Daryl looked at the chick; she was sleeping like a baby, curled up on her side. She'd probably be pretty pissed at herself when she woke up, he figured. It was damn reckless to fall into a sleep that deep, especially alone.

Herschel and the girls had done good work, though. The place was pretty clean, and so was she from what he could see. Hanging from the ceiling fan was the bag of fluid, which had run dry. _Fuck_, he thought. He didn't know how to take that shit apart. It was easy enough to yank a needle out of her arm, but Daryl didn't want to carry some strange woman's blood around and risk getting stuck. Hepatitis and shit.

He tossed the thought aside, craving a cigarette. Who knew how long the girl would be asleep. _If she even wakes up_. Daryl had it in his mind that he'd get here and she'd be all bright-eyed moments later. Now, standing in the long abandoned bedroom, he realized the chances of that happening were slim. He popped a cigarette in his mouth, yanking open the bedroom window and settling on the sill. "You best wake up soon, girl. I'm missin' dinner."

* * *

**Mila DeVroe**

(2 hours later…)

The first thing Mila noticed as she sluggishly came to consciousness was the smell of cigarettes. It drifted past her nose like a finger, beckoning her awake. The girl inhaled, savoring the scent. If it didn't smell like blood or death, Mila was happy to have it. Where it was coming from, she didn't yet care.

The next thing she noticed, almost instantly, was the pain. Mila didn't remember much after a certain point of suffering, but she knew with clarity that this wasn't the pain she'd experienced before. Before, her pain concentrated in her stomach, occasionally shooting up her back. Now, it resonated everywhere, rippling constantly to the tips of her toes, her skin, up to her eyeballs. If hair had nerves, that would probably hurt too.

It took everything to will her eyelids open, which felt like they'd been stuck together for days. The room was dark, but visible in the bright moonlight. Mila blinked slowly. _I'm in a room_, she thought lethargically, registering the bed underneath her. Her right arm crooked on the mattress in front of her, revealing a thin tube that snaked out of her hand. She swallowed thickly, trying to understand what she was looking at.

_An IV_, she finally concluded. For the briefest moment, Mila thought that the apocalypse had been a dream. She wanted to roll over and see her mother sitting at the bedside, ready with her sweet smile. The thought was erased by a violent shiver.

Mila rolled onto her back with a groan, searching for a thicker blanket. "Welcome back, Train Tracks." She froze mid-grab. The voice was gruff and masculine; a man. Something about it triggered her memory. She recalled the prison, falling down into the creek; the walker, the men on the…

"Train tracks," she croaked. Her throat was dry and scratchy. Mila rolled to her side, pushing to a sitting position as clumsy as a newborn calf. Her head was swimming, and _Jesus_ she was cold. But there was a strange man who seemed to know things that she didn't. She wasn't going to go down without a fight, no matter how sick she was. Unfortunately, her knife and gun lay by the window sill, right next to the source of the voice. She tried to focus on them, but they were too small. Her vision kept doubling up.

She looked at the stranger. It was that blonde guy. He was propped up lazily, taking a long drag of his cigarette and regarding her. She could see most of his features in the moonlight, and he didn't appear to be in any sort of hurry to attack her. Mila breathed as evenly as she could; trying to hide the immense amount of pain she was in.

"Did you do this?"

He huffed. "Nah. I'm jus' the babysitter." She didn't have enough energy to be offended, and she was still so confused. Her shirt was different; a t-shirt. She pulled the blanket up with a wince and noticed that she wasn't wearing any pants. A twinge of fear twisted in her gut.

"You gonna hurt me?" She clipped out the words through gritted teeth, as the shivering was so violent she thought she might pull a muscle. The man threw his cigarette out the window and crossed his arms, watching her without expression. Mila rolled her eyes. "Well if you are, could you just kill me afterward? I feel like ass."

That made the man chuckle, which Mila resented. She wasn't joking. She'd had enough torture for one lifetime. "I ain't much for preyin' on the wounded." She watched him fish around for something in his pocket, and he tossed it into her lap. "Supposed to give ya those." Mila squinted in the dim light. _Levaquin_.

"An antibiotic?"

He shrugged indifferently. "Guess so. I ain't the doc."

Mila scooted back with all her strength so that she could rest against the headboard. "Who is then?" The room continued to spin.

"Guy from our group." He looked at her carefully, considering his next sentence. "Said you had a miscarriage."

Mila blinked. "A what?"

The guy looked annoyed. "The fuck; y'know, lost your baby or whatever."

She knew what miscarriage meant. She just hadn't realized that she was pregnant. _A fucking miscarriage_. How could she even be pregnant? She hadn't had sex with anyone. Except she had, and she'd spent two months trying to block the memory. She didn't care to call that experience "sex", really. It was more like rape, and it had happened just before she escaped the virtual prison she was in. The fact that such a horrific experience resulted in a pregnancy made her want to vomit.

Mila was suddenly overly aware of herself. She pulled the blanket up, trying to preserve what little dignity she had left. "Are miscarriages supposed to make me feel like I'm on fire?"

The man stood and grabbed his crossbow from the ground. "Probably not. Herschel – the doc – said you have an infection. Somethin' on your back."

The feverish fog was starting to numb her mind again. "My back…" She thought hard. "Oh," she slurred. "From getting whipped." It spilled out of her mouth so matter-of-factly that she chuckled, becoming drunk from the heat of the infection. "Can't even feel my back anymore."

He looked at her strangely and then tossed a half-empty water bottle onto the bed. "I gotta get back to my group. I'm gonna need that bag." She watched him dumbly as he unhooked the IV bag from the fan. Then, he looked at her hand and cleared his throat, looking uncomfortable. "Ya mind?" She shrugged and shook her head, yanking the small butterfly needle out of her hand roughly. The man stuffed it carefully into his bag, moving to the door. Then, he paused. "Ya gonna take a pill or what?"

Mila furrowed her brows. "Sure." He sounded farther away than he should.

"Jesus, ya delirious or somethin'?" He moved and snatched the bottle out of her hand, fishing out a pill. He handed it to her and she took it absentmindedly. She watched as he unscrewed the water bottle, handing it to her.

"Thanks," she mumbled, growing more and more obtunded with each second. He grunted in response, walking back to the door. "Wha's your name?" Mila asked, fighting heavy eyelids.

He considered the question for a moment, watching her as she fought sleep. "Daryl," he finally said.

She nodded, sliding down into the bed with closed eyes. "I'm Mila." Not a moment later, she was once again unconscious.

* * *

_Finally I can refer to them as their names in each others' POVs. That was getting annoying. Let me know what you think! I like advice, ideas, critiques…all of it._

xoxox


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